Small Island by Andrea Levy

all the world as if he was about to lash him. Mr Philip at his table was no longer a mountain only a man, stunted and fat and incapable of instilling fear. Was it the ringing in my ear that made my head throb so? Or the exhilaration of Michael staring on his father’s face, saying, ‘I would like for us to discuss this, Papa.’ And Mr Philip – silent – taking up his Holy Bible and leading Miss Ma from the room.
    With love it is small signs you have to look to. When Romeo scaled a wall I have no doubt that Juliet swooned with the certainty of what she then knew. Even Miss Jewel had a suitor who wooed her by sleeping overnight at the base of a tree so as to be near her early the next morning. (Although she misunderstood – thinking him just drunk and incapable of movement.) Declarations of love are for American films or books that are not read by educated people. Michael refused to accompany me to the Shirley Temple film. As I praised the sweetness of her voice and the bounce of her curls, he looked on me deep and steady. ‘Shirley Temple is a little girl and I prefer women, Hortense.’ All the world knows teasing is a sign. And he liked to tease me with his learning, urging me to test him on all the capital cities of the world. Australia, New Zealand, Canada. He knew them all. ‘Ask me something harder. Surely you can ask me something harder than that?’
    ‘For what is the city of Sheffield famous?’
    ‘No. Test me on my understanding of geography, not this childishness. Ask me of ox-bow lakes and sedimentary plains or the fishing-grounds of the continental shelf. Come, test me on my knowledge. Ask me of the League of Nations or beg me explain the Irish question.’
    He knew I knew nothing of these, but boasting to impress had been used since Adam first looked upon Eve. There was a time when I would have punched him for his conceit and told him little boys are made of moss and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. But when he patted my head all sensible thought was gone. I feared he could hear my heart beating when he came close; on days when I walked by his side in the shade, leaping to take the same length steps as he; or the moment when, looking into clear water, our faces rippled together as one.
    But I could not play the game of love all day. Miss Ma insisted I return to my work. ‘But,’ I asked, ‘what will Michael do?’
    ‘Michael can get along without you,’ she said. ‘You are not children – he is a man not a boy. He will help his father.’ Mr Philip’s face had set like a stone since his son’s return. Carved into an expression of ‘too much to bear’. I had not heard him utter one word that was not the Lord’s since he had yelled, ‘Enough’, at the food table. He looked so pained that I dreamed of taking his hands and making him dance.
    ‘Could I not assist here at the house, Miss Ma?’ I asked.
    ‘What, you think you are a white woman now – a lady of leisure?’ she said. There was no choice for me.
    But would the morning sun rise if I could not look on Michael’s face? Could it set if I had not heard him call my name? I need not have fretted, for as I stepped on to the veranda that first dark, silent morning Michael was standing at the foot of the stairs; dressed in his finest ready to escort me to the schoolhouse. ‘Michael Roberts,’ I said, ‘I hope you are not neglecting your duties for my sake.’
    Despite the absence for his education Michael was as well loved and respected in the town as his father. He knew everyone. Hello, good day, good morning accompanied every step we took. He was even acquainted with Mrs Ryder.
    ‘Was it not at church that we met, Michael?’ Mrs Ryder said, when I asked of their first encounter.
    Michael put both hands in the air and shook his head. I knew he would not remember. So I said, ‘No, you must be mistaken as Michael does not attend the same church as you and Mr Ryder.’
    ‘Oh, in a grocery store, then,’ Mrs Ryder said hastily. She